


Something to Hang On To

by HazelnutShippingCo



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (lots of blood), Amputation, Blood, Dismemberment, M/M, Maedhros' Severed Hand, Mairon Being Creepy, Rescue, Thangorodrim, a particularly desperate kiss of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6850873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelnutShippingCo/pseuds/HazelnutShippingCo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic written for one of Angbang Morbid March’s themes of the day: corpses (or parts thereof).<br/>Fingon rescues Maedhros from Thangorodrim.  His right hand, left behind, is retrieved by orcs and delivered to Melkor.  Mairon decides to keep it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something to Hang On To

Fingon strained hard against the chain that held Maedhros bound against the mountain.  He pulled until his palms ached and his grip threatened to give way and send him toppling backwards from off the eagle’s shoulder on which he balanced.  Already, he had broken his sword, striking it repeatedly, desperately against the hard steel. But the chain remained undamaged, and the pin unmoved.  

Tears of frustration rose to Fingon’s eyes, but he blinked them away.  Tightening his hands around the cold, sharp metal, he tugged again. The eagle’s talons scraped against stone as it struggled to cling to the sheer cliff.  

 _“Findekáno…”_ Maedhros whispered hoarsely.   _“Please… It’s no use…”_

Fingon reluctantly paused in his struggling.  He looked down at the elf, his cousin, who still hung from the mountainside, borne up for the moment by the eagle’s wing.  Maedhros winced as the great bird shifted slightly to retain its balance and hold on the rockwork, causing the steel band to pull against his wrist once again. His body, left half naked, was gaunt, bearing the scars of torment, his skin rough and weathered by exposure. Maedhros’ grey-green eyes looked into Fingon’s own with sorrow and pity.  Yet within them also dwelt a chilling resignation.

 _“I am glad,”_ Maedhros continued, shakily raising his left hand to touch Fingon’s cheek, _“that I at least got to see you… one last time…”_

Fingon closed his eyes against the tears that now threatened to flow freely.  He pressed Maedhros’ hand against his cheek.  It felt fever-warm upon his skin.  Despair clutched at his heart as he clung to his cousin’s hand, dreading the thing he must do next.

He felt Maedhros’ thumb stroke gently against his face, soothing even now.  Soothing as ever Maedhros’ hands were when he laid them on Fingon’s body.  Fingon’s eyes snapped open as a new thought struck him.

“Maitimo,” he said gently, looking at his cousin once more.  “I’m going to save you.”  Confusion at Fingon’s renewed determination registered in Maedhros’ eyes.  Fingon ran his hand comfortingly through his cousin’s red hair, shorn messily about his face.  “This is going to hurt,” he apologized softly.

Taking up again his broken sword, Fingon grasped his cousin’s right forearm.  He placed the blade’s edge against Maedhros’ wrist, just above the steel band.  Maedhros gasped as he realized what Fingon was about to attempt.  He forced himself into a more upright position, bringing his face level with Fingon’s, staring intensely into his eyes.  Wordlessly, Maedhros nodded.

The flesh around Maedhros’ hand was swollen and inflamed from the constant pressure of his body’s weight.  Fingon steeled himself against what he was about to do.  Taking a deep breath, he plunged the tip of his broken blade into Maedhros’ skin.  

Maedhros moaned as the sharp metal passed easily through skin and muscle.  Blood oozed up behind it, red and warm and sticking.  Fingon struggled to see through it to his task. Maedhros’ hand shook in spasms as the sword severed delicate nerves.

The flesh was easy. The bones were not.

Fingon held his shaking cousin tight against the stone wall.  Red obscured his vision, far more red than he had anticipated.  The edge of the blade caught against small bones in Maedhros’ wrist as Fingon sawed at them, trying desperately to cut through the tendons and ligaments that held them bound.  Maedhros cried out in agony.  Fingon’s mind urged haste – if the orcs heard them now, they would be shot down easily.

Catching up the hem of his cloak, Fingon wrapped it around the broken end of his sword.  He braced his knee against the mountainside, positioning it between Maedhros’ legs, to catch him, lest he fall.  Fingon took up his sword with both hands now, one on either end, with the bare blade shining nakedly between them.  He looked once more into Maedhros’ pain-clouded eyes.

Fingon pressed his mouth against Maedhros’, to stifle the screams that would surely follow, and laid the sword along his cousin’s bloody wrist.  He pressed then, with all his might.  Maedhros shuddered violently against him.  His voice was muffled by Fingon’s lips, but the anguish of it echoed through Fingon’s mind.  

Still harder Fingon pressed, tilting the blade back and forth, his own tears mingling with his cousin’s as the edge of it bit at his hand through the fabric of his cloak.  Finally, in a sickening _snap_ , the sword pass through to grate jarringly against the stone behind it.

Fingon dropped the sword immediately to catch Maedhros as he slumped against him.  The band still held about his wrist.  Blood flowed freely from his open vessels, slickening the skin, allowing Fingon to pull the appendage gently free.  Far beneath them, the dropped weapon clattered upon the ground. The eagle cried out in alarm, shifting its weight, and Fingon had to hold tight to the chain for a moment to keep himself and his cousin from falling.

Carefully, never once loosening his hold on Maedhros, Fingon eased them both onto the bird’s broad back. It was all he could do to cling to them both as the eagle launched itself from the precipice.  Maedhros lay pressed beneath Fingon, his eyes clenched tightly shut, his breathing shallow and rapid.  Blood still flowed unchecked from his wound, but Fingon had not a free hand with which to staunch it.  All Fingon could do now was pray for speed as the wind dried tears upon his face.

* * *

 

A very nervous orc slunk quietly into the Dark Lord’s throne room, deep within the fortress of Angband. Of the patrol currently on guard, he had been the one to draw the unlucky duty of delivering the evening’s bad news.  His comrades had bidden him a solemn farewell before pushing him off in the direction of his task.

The unfortunate orc chanced a glance about the room.  His Master sat upon the throne; his Master’s favorite sat upon his Master’s lap.  The orc lowered his gaze to the floor again. The light from his Master’s crown hurt his eyes.  He scraped his feet upon the floor, dithering.

“Oh, what is it?” Mairon snapped, irritated by the interruption.

The orc winced.  But now their eyes were on him.  Swallowing hard, he made his report.  “Red one’s gone, my Lords…” the creature mumbled.

“The elf?” Melkor asked in reply, seeming disappointed, but not terribly concerned.  “Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before he died up there, a lesser being like that.”

“N-no, my Lord,” the orc stammered, flustered even more now that he had been misunderstood.  “N-not died, just… gone…”

“What?!” Melkor raised his voice in anger.  Mairon had to scramble from his place on Melkor’s lap as the Lord of Angband arose in fury.  “What do you mean ‘gone’?  Gone where?”

“We d-don’t know, Master,” the orc squeaked, cowering before the Vala.  “He’s just… just gone…  This is all that’s left…”  The orc cringed, face to the floor, as he held out Maedhros’ severed hand as an offering.  Melkor raised his hammer threateningly above the orc’s prostrate form.  

“My Lord, wait,” Mairon said smoothly, stepping forward and laying a hand on Melkor’s arm.  Stooping, he picked up the hand from the orc’s grasp. He examined it, turning it over in his hands.  “The blood’s dried,” he observed.  “How long had this been out there?”

The orc muttered something incoherent against the stone floor.  Mairon gave the creature a swift kick in the side.  “Answer me when I speak to you,” he commanded harshly.

“I don’t know, Lord,” the orc answered, daring to look up for but a moment into Mairon’s bright and terrifying eyes.  “It was there when we found it.”  He buried his face against the floor once again.

Mairon sighed in annoyance at the useless response.  “Never mind, then.  Get out of my sight.”

The orc did not waste a moment.  Clambering to his feet, he made for the door as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him.

Mairon watched the orc leave, distaste evident on his features.  The Maia turned back to find Melkor again seated upon his throne, his brows furrowed beneath his heavy crown, his mouth bent into a frown.  Mairon walked smoothly back to his side and lay his unoccupied hand on Melkor’s shoulder.

“The elf was of little use to us anyway, Master,” Mairon consoled.  “His brothers were never going to agree to our ransom, no matter how long we hung him for.  And perhaps he shall even serve us better among his kin, if he lives,” Mairon mused, holding up Maedhros’ hand once more.  “He’s left his sword hand behind.  All he has now is the cruelty and suffering we have etched upon him.  Perhaps, through his example, the Noldor shall learn to fear us properly.”

“Perhaps,” Melkor agreed. “Though I think you underestimate their stubbornness.”  The Dark Lord watched as his lieutenant toyed with the disembodied hand, working its stiff fingers to movement.  “So,” he asked, gesturing toward the appendage.  “What are you planning on doing with that?”

“Oh, I thought I might keep it,” Mairon replied, dangling the hand by its greying thumb, “as a memento of the fun times we had together.  Well, the fun times _I_ had anyway.  And you never know – perhaps one day poor Maitimo will again find himself in one of my torture chambers.  It would be a shame not to be able to return this to him. Although, I may try dipping it in gold, first – bits of elves tend to stink after a while.”

Melkor laughed softly at him.  “Very well, do as you like.”

“Yes, Master,” Mairon purred, crawling back into his Lord’s lap.  “I always do.”


End file.
